Chapman: Be patient, it’ll come. It’s normal to be concerned. You’re very mature for your age, aren’t you Natalia? (LITERALLY X-RAYS MY TOP WITH HIS EYES.)

Me: Can we get the damn toilet paper, sir?

Or something like that. Maybe I didn’t say the last bit. But think about it—Grace has to live with that slimebag every day of her life. And I didn’t learn anything useful. Everyone else might be moving on, or pretending they’re not still counting the days Yin has been missing, but not me. Under the surface I’m not just paddling, but kicking anything in sight.

‘Great party last week, Grace.’ I back away fast, clutching my book.

If I needed further proof that the library is a nightmare if you don’t want to run into people, around the very next corner Art Class Chloe is practically living in the stacks, confirming several of my suspicions about her. She is kneeling on the ground, surrounded by folders and pencils and looking at several million art books.

‘Please save me from an awkward situation,’ I say, with maybe too much desperation. I’m too weird for my own good sometimes. Too weird for even the official weirdos. I sit near her on the floor.

Chloe looks startled and more than a little wary. I decide right here and now, looking at her geeky glasses and her high ponytail, that she’s so uncool she has come out the other side as very cool.

‘What awkward situation?’ She cranes her head, trying to see who’s nearby.

‘Never mind. It’s not important.’

I take a look at the scatter of books she’s pulled off the shelf.

‘Ms Nouri recommended these,’ she says. ‘I’m struggling with our self-portrait. And our main assessment too. All of it really.’

I have no reason at all to talk to her. I clutch for what we have in common. I’d better not mention accidentally blinding Petra in PE and how Chloe swept in like Mother Teresa and nursed her back to health.

‘Art prize. Are you doing it?’ I say.

‘I don’t know. No. I don’t think so. Why does everyone keep asking that? Are you?’

I snort. I took Art because it’s easier than taking politics or another language. I clock Chloe’s list of artists, written neatly in her exercise book, and the ripped up pieces of scrap paper she’s using as bookmarks, and her bulging sketchbook and the photocopies she’s made. For someone who isn’t entering the prize and says she’s struggling, she sure is doing a lot of work.